I stepped between them, my shoulder blade brushing against the cold edge of the mahogany sideboard.

“That is enough, Grant,” I said.

Grant looked around the room, his eyes wild and desperate.

He looked at the high ceilings of Darrow House, then at the oil paintings lining the walls.

His gaze lingered on the late-nineteenth-century landscape by the fireplace, its heavy gold frame catching the dim light.

I knew what he was thinking.

The Mercer family had very little left, but Darrow House still held twenty million dollars worth of European art.

There was a Dutch portrait in the dining room and three early American landscapes in the gallery upstairs.

To Grant, those paintings were no longer family history; they were emergency escape funds.

He needed to pay off his offshore creditors before the bank realized the forty-million-dollar loan had defaulted.

He did not know that Lena had spent the morning in judge’s chambers.

He had no idea that a signed emergency injunction was sitting in the leather briefcase near my feet.

“You think you’ve won,” Grant said, his voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper.